When I think back today, I’m still not entirely sure which devil had ridden me back then.

I was freshly separated from my great love at that time, in my early thirties, chronically broke and unsatisfied when I came across an exciting advertisement looking for a new job. In the neighboring village a huge brothel was to open, for which they were still looking for employees – of course in the administrative area. After all, the ladies in the operating segment were not employees, but young entrepreneurs – but I learned all about that later.

My responsibilities included everything without genitals – I was responsible for all the bureaucratic bullshit that comes with an establishment of this size. Starting with room reservations for the affiliated hotel, manage appointment coordination with the gynaecologists for the girls, keep up to the supervision of various social media channels representing the club appropriately via Facebook and Co. I also had to sound the alarm early enough as soon as the fiscal authorities marched in – after all, the girls had to keep their cash registers and receipts handy to avoid getting into trouble for tax evasion. Even more dangerous than the executive, however, were the bouncers – all of them petty criminals full psychopaths who could not be trusted.

Due to the constant supply of steroids, the guys were the perfect partners for the prostitutes – impotent meets dead fucked. He can’t get it up anymore – she doesn’t want any more.

It quickly became clear to me that the stakes here were different from those in classic gastronomy – in the meetings people didn’t talk about seasonal menus, children’s animation or appreciative communication when dealing with employees – gangbang parties, gun controls at the entrance and a strict ban on contact between workers and prostitutes were the daily topics.

We worked like crazy every day from Dusk to Dawn. On my days off I went to night school to make something out of myself – even though most of the time I was catching up on sleep with my eyes open to regenerate a little. Most of the time I was in the club until half past five in the morning, one hour later at home; school started at 8 o’clock.

At the end of three months, I was a nervous wreck – my strength demanded loud and clear for a time-out; nevertheless, I held on.

Saturday night. The shop was crowded – two hundred women and just as many men cavorted between the bar, porn cinema, pool, buffet and the reception, where I squatted to explain the house rules to the five thousandth customer: “Hundred Euros admission, but all non-alcoholic drinks, food, wellness, and cinema included. Please negotiate animation directly with the ladies!”

Shortly before midnight J. staggered past me with a john, demanded a room key, could hardly stand on her feet. Her bra hung down on one side, her panties long since disappeared, it cost her every effort not to close her eyes.

Quite in contrast to the old man in the bathrobe, who constantly grabbed her tits and seemed to be stone-cold sober. Her disgust seemed palpable, even though she was miles away from feeling even the slightest emotion… She was 18; her second day here. Her Romanian BMW driver drove her here not even 24 hours ago with a birthday cake and suspenders in her hand…

What the hell was I doing in this godforsaken place???????